


Chew and Spit

by Piinutbutter



Category: Survive Style 5+ (2004)
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Femdom, Interactive Fiction, POV Second Person, Temporary Character Death, Violence, Visual Novel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23707864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piinutbutter/pseuds/Piinutbutter
Summary: It is 4 AM, and you have once again failed to murder your wife.In other words: You're fucked.
Relationships: Mimi/Ishigaki (Survive Style 5+)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 17
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	1. The Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeathCorporal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathCorporal/gifts).



This fic is presented in the form of a choose-your-own-adventure style game. See this chapter's notes for technical details and content warnings, and the following chapter for the raw text of the VN, in case you don't wish to play through all the routes. (I _highly_ recommend playing the game rather than just reading the text, though!)

**[The game can be played here](https://nonnydev.itch.io/chew-and-spit). The password is "SURVIVE" in all caps.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technical notes:
> 
> * There's music! And sound effects! Headphones are recommended.
> 
> * The game is optimized for laptops, but should be playable on smartphones. (I've only tested it on a Galaxy S10E, though, so my apologies if there's any issues on iPhone, or lag on older phones.)
> 
> * There are 2 "real" endings and 3 "bad" endings.
> 
> * If you come across any bugs or crashes, feel free to let me know.
> 
> Content notes:
> 
> * The game is written in second person from a male character's POV. It contains sex scenes, including non- and dubcon, in which said male character is the one being non- and dubconned. (Specific sex acts include pegging, oral sex, PIV sex, and choking.)
> 
> * The game contains graphic descriptions of violence and temporary character death.
> 
> * _All explicit content is reserved to textual descriptions_. There are no graphic images.


	2. Raw Text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the plain text of the major scenes in Chew and Spit. Again, I highly recommend playing [the game proper](https://nonnydev.itch.io/chew-and-spit) through, at least once! But hopefully this provides an option to those who prefer plain text, for accessibility or personal reasons.
> 
> Use ctrl+f on Windows, cmd+f on Mac, or "find in page" on mobile to navigate to the [#number scene anchors.

[#1]

It is 4 AM, and you have once again failed to murder your wife.

She sits on the couch, legs crossed and hands folded, calling you a fool with the voice she doesn't have.

[RUN to KITCHEN -> #7]

[RUN to UPSTAIRS -> #8]

[SURRENDER -> #2]

* * *

[#2]

Maybe diplomacy can succeed where fighting back can't. It's worth a try, at the very least.

Hanging up your coat, you approach her. You keep your movements slow and your hands where she can see them, in no mood to startle her into more violence. 

She has a predator's eyes. But you think you see something soften in them when you kneel at her feet. 

She pushes her hands into your hair, half playing with it, half keeping you from running. She always did like your hair. She used to try and braid it. But that was long ago; before she became what she is and you, what you are.

She's wearing a soft white dress that's far too light for the cold weather outside. It's not the outfit you buried her in. You push the skirt up - 

\- so carefully, no sudden movements - 

\- and you don't know why you're surprised that she's not wearing anything under it. 

She tugs your head forward, but you don't need to be reminded. Her skin smells like dirt and grass fresh after a rainstorm. Maybe it rained overnight at her grave site.

You busy yourself between her thighs, licking and sucking and doing your best to prove your worth to her. She doesn't make a sound, but you can tell she's enjoying herself. She cants her hips up, grinding against your tongue. Her grip on your hair is so tight, a dull ache is forming along your skull. She presses your face against her cunt hard enough to cut off your breathing at some points. You're getting lightheaded, but you can't stop until she's satisfied.

Literally. She wouldn't let you.

When her thighs twitch around your head and she finally goes still, you're dizzy. You fall back on your ass, your legs having gone to sleep a while ago. You look up at her, raising a hesitant arm towards your face, ready to defend yourself just in case. 

She's smiling. At first, you think it's the same victorious smile she wears when she has you cornered and can thrash you to her heart's content. Blinking the fuzziness out of your vision, you see a hint of genuine joy in it - joy that maybe, this time, doesn't come entirely from sadism.

Getting up and stumbling on numb legs, you head to the master bedroom. You need some rest.

She doesn't stop you.

[-> #3]

* * *

[#3]

It's hard to fall asleep when you're still not sure if you're off the hook.

You hear noises downstairs throughout the rest of the morning. Shuffling and miscellaneous kitchen sounds. Your stomach aches thinking of the last meal she made in there. You're not sure you could take another like that.

You end up only getting a few hours of fitful, half-waking nightmares before the grandfather clock on the ceiling tells you it's time to get up.

[-> #4]

* * *

[#7]

You flee to the nearest room: The kitchen.

You eye the knife block on the counter, and just above it, the rack of hanging pots and pans.

You sprint across the tiled floor, reaching for the butcher's knife.

When you grab it, instead of the handle, you feel soft fingers already wrapped around your weapon of choice.

You turn your head to see her standing right beside you. She gives you a girlish, almost coy smile.

Then she's trying to plunge the knife into your chest.

You run back the way you came, scrambling to dodge the knife as she tosses it at your head. It whirrs just past your ear, taking a small lock of your hair with it as the blade embeds itself in the door frame.

Looks like you need a new escape route. The closest thing is the staircase. You take it two steps at a time.

[-> #8]

* * *

[#8]

The second floor of your home seems endless. A dozen doors line each side of the hallway.

You've forgotten where most of them lead - and sometimes the answer changes at the house's whim.

There's three you're confident enough to try, though.

[CONSERVATORY -> #9]

[BATHROOM -> #11]

[GALLERY -> #13]

* * *

[#9]

The conservatory is a tall room, lit by a massive stained glass window. Your footsteps echo in the open space as you run the obstacle course of instruments and music stands that dot the room.

You don't even know how to read sheet music.

You're the slightest bit too hasty rounding a corner. Your foot snags on a cello case, and you stumble for a short moment.

A short moment is all she needs. 

She grabs you by the collar and slams you onto the nearest flat surface - a piano bench. The bench's intricate legs crack and shatter under the impact, and you're left crumpled and dazed in a pile of broken wood panels. She leans over and yanks at something behind your head. You hear a snapping sound, and then she's standing over you, wielding the one bench leg that was still mostly intact like a barbarian woman with a club.

You bring your arms up to shield your face and squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the first blow.

When it comes, it's not what you expected.

She kicks your legs open and plants a foot on your stomach to keep you still. She rips at your belt and tugs your pants off. You're too surprised to try and stop her.

"Really?" you ask. "Here?"

Predictably, she ignores you. 

She kneels down and examines your body with a glint in her dark eyes. Too late, you realize what she's planning on doing with the piece of wood in her hand. You have a second to think that you'd rather she just beat you, and then her fingers are between your legs.

You try to squirm away. She braces the hand with the bench leg in it against your throat, keeping you pinned. You sputter as she pushes, unwavering, into you.

You've done this with her before. Long ago, before she became what she is and you, what you are. But she'd been much more gentle then; you, much more prepared. And she hadn't used such an intimidating tool.

The chunk of wood isn't particularly wide, but it's hard, and the end that isn't jagged and covered in splinters comes to a decorative, textured ball head. You suppose it's a small mercy that that's the end she chooses to thrust into you, but it doesn't stop the sensation from being unfamiliar and undeniably painful. 

You don't bother to hide how much it hurts. You know she's doing this to take joy in your suffering, and the quicker you can satisfy her, the quicker she'll ease up on you. You hope.

She fucks you like she does everything else in her life: Relentlessly, viciously, and without a clear purpose. You don't know which of you is more surprised that you actually end up coming. She evidently gets bored with how limp and unresisting you go after spilling yourself, though. She plays with you halfheartedly for another minute before pulling out without warning. She pays no mind to your groans, just stands and brushes off her skirt.

Aftercare isn't part of her vocabulary. She leaves you sprawled on the ruins of the bench, dazed and sore in a dozen different places. You want to lay there for the next year or so. Moving feels like a pipe dream.

But you aren't the only one subdued by the experience. When you crane your neck to watch her go, you see that she's engulfed in the afterglow. She's facing away from you, but making no move to leave right away. 

She stretches her arms.

She bends her back.

She turns her neck this way and that.

It's hard to tell from this angle, but you're pretty sure she's smiling.

Her guard is completely down.

Your eyes drift to the array of instruments that could, theoretically, be used to bludgeon someone. Even if they weren't hefty enough to be deadly, they could certainly knock her out and give you an opportunity to seal the deal. 

[ATTACK -> #15]

[LEAVE HER BE -> #10]

* * *

[#10]

Your lower back thanks you for taking the high road.

It's technically morning, but there's little in the world you want more right now than to get some sleep. 

You try very hard not to limp as you wander down the hall to find the nearest bedroom.

You don't...entirely succeed.

[-> #3]

* * *

[#11]

The bathroom is a risk. It's small, so there's not much room to run if she catches you. On the other hand, the cramped space might make it possible for you to get the upper hand on her, even given her unnatural strength.

You decide to chance it.

Besides a sink, toilet, and the massive bathtub dominating the space, there's practically nothing in the bathroom. You barely have time to look around and think of a plan of attack before you feel a hand tangle in your hair.

She yanks you down, bashing your head against the lip of the tub, and your world goes dark.

You don't know how long you're out. When you come to, it's a sluggish process. Every sensation is muffled and static. For some reason, the thought comes to you - remarkably calmly - that you're drowning in your own blood. After all, you hit your head, and now you're submerged in some warm liquid. Also, you keep choking.

After the minute it takes for your vision to clear, and for you to come to terms with your apparent bloodbath, you realize that you're just in the bathtub, surrounded by water. You are definitely bleeding - the warm water is tinged pink around you - but it wasn't anywhere near as bad as you'd assumed.

You are, however, choking alarmingly often. Mainly because your wife is straddling you, one hand on your neck and the other between her legs, and she keeps shoving your head just below the water in short, gleeful bursts. She's discarded her clothes, and apparently yours as well while you were unconscious. 

You're torn. On the one hand, looking at her, you're reminded all over again of how unbearably attractive she is when she gets this visibly aroused.

On the other hand, fluid is filling your lungs, and she'll probably kill you if she keeps up like this.

You scramble to get enough leverage to keep your head above water, but that's difficult. Not only is the smooth porcelain of the bathtub hard to get any purchase on, but the woman on top of you isn't keen on letting you take back any control. Annoyed with your thrashing, she rears a hand back to slap you.

There. An opening. She's shifted her weight just enough for you to buck her off, if you put all your strength into it. Of course, in the slick bathtub, she'll almost certainly end up injured as well. As easy as it is for you to kill her, you don't like inflicting unecessary violence on her when she's alive. 

(And, of course, there's the tiny voice in the back of your head telling you to calm down and submit to her. Enjoy the ride. You wonder if you've always had this side in you, hidden in the dark corners under your cerebral self, and she merely dragged it out into the light of day.)

Well. She's not giving you much time to second-guess yourself.

[FIGHT -> #16]

[SUBMIT -> #12]

* * *

[#12]

You can't deny you're enjoying this.

Even through the pain, through the struggle to breathe. Something sings in you as she brings her hand down on you in a vicious blow. A punishment - not for trying to kill her, but for trying to challenge her power over you.

(Maybe, you think, she'd sensed this part of you, when the two of you first met. She'd been the one to make the first move, after all.)

You raise a hand to her face, fingertips brushing her cheek. She responds by pushing you back under the water and diving in after you. She seals her mouth over yours in a kiss that would have left no room for air even on land.

Through the pulsing darkness creeping over your senses, you can feel her rutting against your thigh. That's nice. It's nice to see her enjoying herself.

She pulls away from the kiss. You, without thought or intent, pull her back for another one.

Her lips are so soft.

**ENDING: High Tide**

* * *

[#13]

The gallery has always seemed unnecessary in your home, where every room holds dozens of works of art in hundreds of different styles. But the stacks of paintings that haven't yet found a spot on your walls could prove a good hiding place.

You sprint into the room with your wife's heavy, relentless footsteps echoing behind you. It's too late to hide; she knows you're here.

You're looking around for an escape route, or something to use as a weapon, but she's simply too fast. She charges you, grabbing your collar and marching you towards the wall until your back hits the textured metal of an intricate picture frame. You're pressed up against the biggest painting in the room - an idyllic landscape piece.

Her eyes widen when your momentum doesn't stop even though you've hit a wall. Both of you stumble into the canvas, the sticky tempera paint grabbing at your limbs and pulling you into a world of pure white.

When the white clears, you find yourself lying in a bed of soft grass beneath a tree. Around you, the grass stretches for an eternity. The grass sways, but you can't hear or feel any breeze. It's just the three of you in this world: You, the tree, and your wife.

She lies beside you, radiant in a yellow sun dress. It's the dress she wore when you had your first kiss. You remember, because you complimented her on it. She smiled, and the sheer joy in it was what finally made you get over your nerves and taste her pretty lips for yourself.

She's giving you that same smile now. It's almost enough to convince you nothing has changed.

She takes the initiative this time. She raises a hand to your face. You wince, but all she does is stroke your hair. There's a foreign softness in her touch as she wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you close. You feel a knot form, high up in your chest.

You return her affections, and she lets you. The both of you simply...lie there, enjoying the feeling of each other's company.

You feel, for the first time, like such an idiot for wanting to get rid of this woman.

You could stay here like this forever. Your hand traces the curves of her back, her hips, her thighs. She trails her fingers over the bones of your hip, your stomach, your ribs. You don't know how long you've been there - hours, maybe - when she leans close and murmurs something into your ear.

"I love you."

. . .

This is not your wife.

She nudges you onto your back and slings a leg over your waist, straddling you. Her smile hasn't changed, but this is not your wife.

Since when did she speak?

It's all you can think about. Even as she hitches her dress up and leans over you, grinding lazily against your hips. Your body takes notice, but your mind is somewhere else entirely.

You cup her face in your hands. "Who are you?"

Maybe the illusion has realized her mistake. She only mouths the words this time.

_I'm yours._

Her hands snake under your shirt, their touch searing hot. She's always been cold. She nips at your neck, and you shiver, but it's not entirely from the arousal.

You could stay here like this forever. But who would you be sharing eternity with?

[STAY WITH HER -> #14]

[LEAVE HER -> #17]

* * *

[#14]

It's not worth it to put up a fuss. After all, it's peaceful here. Peace isn't something you've had for a long, long time.

You grip her hips and bare your neck to her, encouraging. You stop caring if she makes sounds - odd, foreign noises that don't belong in her mouth - as she pulls your shirt open and kisses her way down your chest. 

You don't have to be a killer all the time. You can be a hot-blooded man once in a while.

She rides you, head thrown back and pale lips parted. Whatever illusion this is, it sure as hell feels real. She lets you pull the bodice of her dress down, lets you play with her breasts and dig your fingers into her strong shoulders. Everything feels so warm.

Distantly, you realize a fair amount of time must have passed. Normally you'd be tired and overstimulated right now. You feel nothing but refreshed. The mere idea of abandoning this pleasure gives you a sense of loss; you wrap your arms around her neck and pull her closer, just in case she decides to suddenly stop.

She doesn't go anywhere.

Neither do you.

**ENDING: Lotus Eater**

* * *

[#15]

In the chaos, a viola next to the piano's been knocked off its stand. It lays by your left foot, its dark wood speckled with your semen. You grimace and ignore that as you pick the thing up by its neck.

Your body is as taut as the viola's errant bow as you approach her from behind. You're expecting her to turn around and thrash you at any moment. You get only as close as you need to. Then...

You end up using the viola to finish the job. It breaks after the first few blows, and the jagged wood proves a fine stake. You kneel over her and catch your breath while waiting for hers to stop.

When it finally does, you glance out the window, narrowing your eyes at the glare of the sun crawling over the horizon. You're not going to bury a body in broad daylight.

You change your clothes and retrieve some pain medication from the bathroom cabinet before checking if you need to make room for her in the walk-in freezer.

[-> #18]

* * *

[#16]

You bring your legs up and towards your head, knocking her off balance and throwing her forward. Above you, her face crashes into the wall of the tub. Your own head wound throbs in sympathy. You ignore it and take advantage of her temporary shock, wriggling out from under her.

You pull yourself back to the world of the breathing, clinging to the rim of the bathtub for dear life and dragging your clammy body onto the tiles. You're too focused on gulping enough oxygen down to fend off the creeping black film around your vision to care how silly you must look. Naked, shivering, and choking like a drowned rat.

It's unfair that she steps out of the water behind you with the grace of a mermaid and the glare of a siren. A siren with a broken, bleeding nose, but. Still.

She takes one step towards you, hands outstretched and ready to drag you to a watery grave...

...and slips on the slick tile floor.

Her head strikes the edge of the tub, right next to where she shoved you. More blood joins her dripping nose. It seeps from her dark hair and decorates the wet floor with a pale pink drizzle.

You wait. You wait for her to move, so you can flee or defend yourself. You wait for her to faint and give you an opportunity to finish her off.

She does neither. Her eyes remain open, locked on you. The ferocity in them never dims, and they never close.

After an embarrassing number of minutes, you realize she's already dead.

You glance out the window, narrowing your eyes at the glare of the sun crawling over the horizon. You're not going to bury a body in broad daylight.

You grab a towel and dry yourself off before checking if you need to make room for her in the walk-in freezer.

[-> #18]

* * *

[#17]

You ignore her pawing at you. Her movements grow increasingly more desperate as you deny her, until she's clawing at you, her painted nails tearing your clothing to shreds.

When you try to push her off, she retaliates. She slashes at your throat, tearing a brutal gash into your neck. Blood spews from the wound, staining her pretty yellow sun dress.

As your vision fades, you see an odd expression on her face. She stares at the damage she's done like it's a surprise to her.

Another failure of this illusion.

Your wife knows her strength.

. . .

You're spat back into the gallery. The painting's been nice enough to restore your clothes (and your neck) to their un-shredded state.

A bigger surprise, perhaps, is your wife.

She stumbles to her feet beside you, looking shaken. She meets your eyes briefly, then turns away, almost...embarrassed?

You wonder what she saw in her illusion.

On the bright side, she seems to have lost interest in assaulting you for the time being. She straightens her skirt and fixes her hair, still avoiding your gaze.

She gives you a curt nod before walking stiffly out of the gallery.

You take this as the cue for a truce tonight.

...Today, to be more accurate. You can see the sun crawling over the horizon through the gallery's narrow windows.

No matter the hour, you've been up for way too long. It's time to get some rest.

You look for the nearest bedroom. She's not in it, but that's probably for the best right now.

[-> #3]

* * *

[#18]

You bury her frozen body at midnight. It's not likely, but you wonder if the chill will stop whatever process she uses to regenerate herself.

Yeah. You were a little optimistic, there.

She barely gives you time to grab a carton of milk and take a shower.

She's always been your own personal ice storm. Cold, beautiful, and deadly.

When she comes back this time, that comparison is a bit less figurative.

At first you think the central air is on the fritz, but that doesn't account for the icy fingers brushing the back of your neck.

You're on the section of grating that stretches between two second-floor hallways. It's a long drop to the living room below, and you don't have much room to fight. The doorway in front of you is rapidly growing jagged icicles the size of your arm, blocking your escape in that direction. Behind you is, well - her.

Desperate, you try to jump anyway. She grabs you by the belt and hauls you back to safety. What would be a romantic gesture in any other context is undermined by her immediately throwing you to the grating and pinning you there with a heel on your throat. 

You get a good look at her now. She's wearing a dress in the colors of a winter sunset, and obviously pissed off. 

(You don't blame her. You just wish she would express her displeasure with a little less violence.)

She removes her foot from your neck, only to aim a kick at your face a moment later. You're still reeling from that when she kneels beside your head. She examines you for a moment, turning your face this way and that. She looks like she's considering a cut of meat at the market.

She shoves two fingers down your throat. 

You gag. They're freezing, and the constant press of them down against your tongue and throat is overwhelming. The chill of her body looming over you is numbing your arms. Her lips twitch into a smile as she watches your eyes start to water.

You're not going to buy popsicles for a while after this.

When she finally withdraws her fingers, it's little mercy to your confused nerves. You blink the tears out of your eyes to see her hiking up her skirts.

She mounts your face and grabs your hair with both hands. Heat stirs low in your stomach, thrilled in spite of the circumstances.

All you can think as you latch onto her clit is that this is the weirdest way to get frostbite.

When she's finished with you, your jaw is aching and you're shivering all over. Satisfied for the time being, she melts the icicles she left with a wave of her hand and wanders off to another corner of the house.

You lie there long after she's gone, rubbing feeling back into your face and limbs. You can't keep doing this. You got off easy tonight, but there's nothing to say she won't kill you first thing in the morning.

An image comes to your mind unbidden. An advertisement you'd seen, months ago, for a hitman service. You'd dismissed it as a scam back then.

Now? You need try anything other than what you've been doing. Definition of insanity, and all that.

You leave the house before dawn. There's a slip of paper in your pocket with an address in the heart of downtown. You triple check it before getting into your car.

At least, you think, this will give you a break. You haven't seen her leave the boundaries of your property. You aren't sure if there's something keeping her here, or if she just doesn't want to leave.

In all your pondering, it doesn't occur to you that - idling in the front driveway - you're still very much on your property. 

And she isn't keen on letting you leave.

You rolled the windows down the night before, trying to get some air circulating in the car to clean out the new blood smell. Your heart about shuts down when your wife sticks her head through the driver's side window and starts trying to climb in. 

These days, panic drives you more than your actual killing instinct. You're shoving the 'window up' button like you've just seen an angry wasp on your rear view mirror. 

Your wife's severed head and a half of her hand plop into your lap. You didn't know these windows were made out of such strong glass.

Unsure of what to do, you toss the bleeding body parts out the passenger side window. Beside you, her headless body slides to the ground, smearing the side of your car with blood on the way down. 

It occurs to you that you've never tried decapitating her before. Maybe this could be the thing that finally keeps her in the grave. Isn't that what they say to do with vampires?

It's a risk. Do you want to try the hitmen, and possibly get ripped off - maybe even reported to the cops? Or do you want to go back inside and pray that this time, things will be different?

[TRY THE HITMEN -> #19]

[GO BACK INSIDE -> #20]

* * *

[#19]

There's just enough darkness left to bury her before you drive into town. It's a rush job, but as long as she's under dirt, it shouldn't make a difference. 

You suppose it's a blessing that you live so far from any signs of human life. It would be hard to explain your nightly off-hours drives to neighbors.

The office you're looking for is near the top of a cramped, blocky skyscraper. The elevator ride up feels like it takes years. You keep feeling the urge to look over your shoulder - a ridiculous instinct to have in an empty elevator.

The hitmen, plural, turn out to be a singular foreign hitman and his contractor, who is definitely trying to compensate for something. You don't pay the latter much attention.

The foreigner is outwardly handsome, but one look at his eyes and you can tell he's eager to stab you the moment you give him an excuse.

He reminds you of your wife, in that sense.

You're negotiating the details of the job when the hitman and the contractor abruptly stop talking and stare at the office door behind you. They look to each other, startled. You turn, but see nothing through the door's window.

"What's wrong?" you ask.

"A woman's face just looked through the door," the contractor says, his brow furrowed. 

You glance at the wall of security camera monitors that remind visitors they're being watched. There's multiple cameras capturing all angles of the hallway. No one shows up.

The contractor continues, "But I didn't hear the elevator. Did you?"

You can't understand the hitman's answer. But it's easy enough to guess, given the way he stands up and walks briskly towards the door. As he goes, he speaks to you, and the contractor translates.

"Terribly sorry for the interruption. We need to investigate something, but we'll be right back. You just sit tight."

They trudge into the hall, and you're left alone. Worry hits you: Has she followed you all the way here?

The worry is followed by relief. If she's out there with them, it's the perfect place for her to be. They can take care of her for you right away.

As you're reflecting on the serendipity, a knock comes from the window. Not the dumb thunk of a bird hitting glass, but a distinct, polite knock of knuckles tapping a rhythm on a window.

A window near the top of a skyscraper.

Curiosity gets the best of you. You wonder if someone fell from a higher floor and needs help getting back inside. Maybe there was construction going on that you missed.

You walk to the window. You lean forward, trying to see anything at all, and the glass shatters in front of you. A hand reaches through the broken glass and grabs you, yanking you against the window with enough force to destroy the rest of the glass pane.

As you're thrown out of the window, for an instant you find yourself face-to-stump with your wife's headless body. She's clinging to the brick wall like a spider.

You guess she was in the hallway. Just not all of her.

As they say, you're not afraid of heights. You're just afraid of descending from heights at a dangerous speed.

**ENDING: Not the Fall That Kills You**

* * *

[#20]

There's just enough darkness left to bury her. 

You suppose it's a blessing that you live so far from any signs of human life. It would be hard to explain your nightly off-hours drives to neighbors.

You return home and spend the rest of the day on edge, waiting for her to be sitting in front of you whenever you turn your head. You can't quite believe it when night comes and you're still alone. 

You keep your guard up throughout the ritual of bathing and brushing your teeth. You turn on all the lights before heading down the hallway to the first bedroom you find. Tonight it's the one with an ancient Greek art theme. It only hits you once you're under the sheets just how dead tired you are. How long have the two of you been going at this cat and mouse game? You've lost track.

Your nerves are no match for the exhaustion sapping your whole body. You fall asleep eventually.

You're pretty sure you're dreaming when you stir at the feeling of cold breath hitting your thighs. You shift, trying to turn on your side and snuggle into a more comfortable position, but something is between your legs.

It's also licking you.

You reach down with drowzy hands, feeling out a head coated in thick, smooth hair. Ah. It's been a long time since she's done this for you.

You aren't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. You settle back, stroking her hair and encouraging her with muted hums when she takes your hardening cock into her mouth.

Shit. This is nice. This is the woman you want to get rid of?

One of you moves at the wrong time, and her teeth graze the underside of your dick. You hiss and pull back, but strong hands wrap around you. They pull you so you're back is pressed against a soft chest, preventing you from going too far. 

Wait a minute.

Fully awake now, you throw off the sheets. Her head is between your legs, but the rest of her body is sitting behind you and holding you with an iron grip.

She's not doing anything to hurt you right now, but she's angling for revenge. She must be. You aren't going to wait for her to bite your dick off. 

She certainly isn't amused by your startled, hysteric attempts to pry her off of you. Her eyes are squinted in a judgmental look you recognize from your younger days. The one that says 'are you really going to make a big deal out of this?'

Damn straight you are. Nothing feels right about this anymore. All you can look at is the curiously clean severance wound on her neck. All you can think about is how she's full of hatred, and she has every right to be, because you did this to her. Because you'll keep doing this to her, and she to you, until what? Until you both drop dead from your own stubbornness?

Her arm is around your neck, now, digging into your windpipe. You manage to gasp a word out anyway.

"Mimi."

Her head and body both go still. With her arm muscles no longer tensed, you can speak more clearly:

"I'm sorry."

You don't expect a reaction. You see no change in her eyes, but -

One of your hands is still clutching her hair. Her head is suddenly a light weight in your arms, rather than an immovable object. You hand it over to her body. A peace offering.

She takes it and screws it back onto her slender neck. She gives you an odd look and a curt nod before taking her leave. 

You can't fall asleep again. Not after that. You hear noises downstairs throughout the night. Shuffling and miscellaneous kitchen sounds. Your stomach aches thinking of the last meal she made in there. You're not sure you could take another like that.

[-> #4]

* * *

[#4]

You come downstairs. Awaiting you at the dining table is...

...a perfectly normal breakfast.

She's at the stove, perfecting a vegetable omelet. She gives you a cursory nod of acknowledgement as you shuffle into the kitchen.

She's wearing the same green dress she came back in, the last time she decided to cook for you. You've always thought those long sleeves were a hazard in the kitchen. You're proved right when you watch a spark fly from the gas burner and catch on the passing fabric frills. The cloth starts to burn.

Your wife doesn't seem to notice. She's laser focused on her cooking, sliding the finicky eggs around in the pan with her spatula. You come closer, clearing your throat to try and draw her attention. She doesn't even blink.

Oh, screw this.

[HELP HER -> #5]

[KILL HER -> #6]

* * *

[#6]

Seeing the fire triggers something inside you. Maybe you've just had enough. No, not maybe. You're definitely sick of this. You can't keep going around in circles.

There is one thing you haven't tried yet. 

You've always thought it must be her. It's her who won't stay dead, something in her inhuman body that brings her back no matter what you do to her.

But, you think, she always comes back home. Back to the home the two of you made and shared for years, even as the building developed a mind of its own.

You should have known the house wouldn't want to lose one of its parents.

You grab one of the heavy pans cooling on another burner. Your wife finally seems to notice something is off. It's too late for that.

Fire spreads easily in a house like yours. Cluttered rooms, narrow passageways, and so much oxygen to feed off of. 

You lock the doors on your way out, wondering how long it will take the flames to eat her body up.

You drive. You're not sure where you're going. You just want to get away.

Maybe you'll try city living for once.

And if there are a pair of hateful, fiery eyes following you in the rear view mirror?

You ignore them.

**ENDING: Throw the Whole Wife Away**

* * *

[#5]

You grab her arm and shove it under the tap. She's startled, but she doesn't lash out at you - especially not once she realizes, with a sheepish frown, that she was on fire.

"Sorry," you mutter, unsure why you feel the need to explain yourself. "You were just..."

She shakes out her soggy, singed sleeve. She stares at it for a moment, then pats your shoulder.

She goes back to cooking. She's more careful this time around.

You keep your guard up, but she doesn't try to hurt you once over course of the day. In fact, you see her smile a few times. You feel like you've signed a peace treaty without knowing or trying.

Maybe that was all she was waiting for. A sign that you still care.

When night falls, she vanishes. You can't find her anywhere inside the house. You're beginning to wonder if she's up and left you when a noise from up on the roof catches your attention.

Your home's roof is slanted and crooked, the house's spires coming together at a dozen different angles. It's always been risky to stargaze up here. That never stopped the two of you.

She's sprawled on the shingles, looking up at the vivid sky you can only get far away from the cities. She looks so at ease.

You join her. Careful not to slip and break your neck, you arrange yourself so you're laying beside her, staring up at the same stars. 

Carefully, slowly, you reach a hand towards her. Palm up and open in offering.

You leave it there for so long it startles you when she actually slides her hand into yours. She squeezes it, gently.

You say nothing. The two of you have rarely needed words to understand each other. Why start now?

**ENDING: Reconciliation**


End file.
